


Sweetest at the Bottom

by CRScully



Category: Original Work
Genre: Dreams, Loneliness, Multi, Narrative, Pessimistic, Poetry, dissilusionment, gemini monster, life - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-04 12:54:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3068738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CRScully/pseuds/CRScully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s easy to convince ourselves that change is occurring when, really, we’re just masking the bitter taste. A lonely lamentation from the bottom of the cup where there is nothing to lose and those big dreams could still eventually happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweetest at the Bottom

A watched pot boils not and the kettle, just as bleak, is the same.

I’m not patient enough for tea.

Life is a waiting game; waiting for love, waiting to be happy, waiting to start it all finally, only to realize the ceremony has long since commenced.

I’m not patient enough for life.

Rocks sink beneath the surface of a copper colored sea and disappear, dissipate, disintegrate like the same boulders on the shore, weary from waiting.

Ivory white cubes that tempt the beast and reward him his burden float before they too are gone.

Stack them up, lick them up, grind them up and sprinkle it sparsely like the sweet sweat drops that beaded and bent the backs of the slaves who shouldered the sugar crop king.

Don’t worry, there’s another box in the pantry.

 

My husband will taste like a cup of Eastside Earl with lots of cream and sugar.

Wine cannot make me drunk but his golden honey heroin I stir into my teacup makes me vibrate with life, often times too much, and shrug off all but the fictitious parts of my existence, if only for the first long anticipated, anti-climactic sip.

It gets stuck to the bottom, drip drip drip, like the ancient, deadly bogs that swallowed our ancestors whole.

And I swallowed it all accidently in one saccharine gulp when I should have just let it drip down slowly, languidly, lethargically.

If bees weren’t so busy, they’d put honey in their tea too.

I hate busy things, busy people, commitments, but I can’t stand still to save my life, always restless, anxious, or pushed away. So everything is two sided, double talking; the Gemini Monster.

 

There is an unyielding, eternitous pull between what we expect, what we think we deserve, what we are hoping for, and what the cold, insentient blackness is prepared to give. It is jamais vu in so much as we forget each time that we have tasted this bitterness before.

 

Every cup of tea is sweetest at the bottom.

Every good thing you put in sinks down low to the ground because everything there is sticky and sickly sweet smelling and wants to catch you and keep you stuck in the web with the poor flies and bees while the spiders descend, march on, crawl on silk smoothed bellies, slow and weary from a life spent hanging around, waiting.

No matter how much I stir, everything settles—especially when I put in, as is my overzealous way, too much.

But I have no patience for tea making anyways.

I can’t even allow my own life to steep, let alone wait on others. Bubbling on the inside, hideous brew, the grains of sand always send me back to you, Gemini Monster; my god, my father, myself.

Good things come to those who wait, but everyone else gets the bitter leaves or watered down shit.

 

Life is sweetest at the bottom, looking up and imagining what it will be like to be on top one day, to be in love, to make it happen, to be free of the demons and these same haunts and habits.

The hardest part is doing it. The worst aspect of sugar is that it makes everything taste sweet andyou can fool yourself into believing there is a change occurring. But it’s just the same black tea.


End file.
